


Death In Venice

by Avery11



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen, Halloween Challenge 2012, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:06:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery11/pseuds/Avery11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is killing UNCLE agents in Venice. Will Napoleon and Illya be next?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death In Venice

 [](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/44556)

They stood on the quay outside Marco Polo Airport, their luggage piled about them, waiting for the water taxi that would convey them across the Venetian Lagoon to their hotel. Illya shivered, and raised the collar of his trench coat against the bitter wind blowing in off the Adriatic.

“It never fails,” he muttered. “Every time we are in Venice, I end up with a head cold.”

“Quit complaining, _tovarisch,_ ” Napoleon replied cheerfully. He shaded his eyes with his hand, hoping to get a better view of the stunning brunette in the chartreuse minidress, just now climbing out of a taxicab.

“I am not complaining. I am merely stating the facts. Venice is not good for my health. Remember what happened the last time we were here?”

 “Sure I remember. Thanks to THRUSH, we took an unscheduled swim in the Grand Canal. As I recall, I ended up in the hospital with bronchial pneumonia. You,on the other hand, got to drink beer with Mark Slate, and play tennis with some Baroness.”

“I nearly got murdered by her husband in their wine cellar!” Illya glared. “That reminds me -- it is your turn to play the gondolier this time. I am tired of singing _O Sole Mio_ to every tourist with a few hundred _lire_ to burn.”

The senior agent chuckled. “But you looked so fetching in your costume.” The brunette paused to adjust her sandal, bending low to reveal a luscious expanse of tanned thigh. Napoleon's jaw dropped. _“Oh, che bella.”_

She fluffed her hair, made a discreet, if futile, effort to tug the hem of her dress down, and disappeared into the terminal. Napoleon sighed and turned away. “What were you saying, _tovarisch_?”

Illya rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

“Fine. If you are done complaining, can we please focus on the mission?”

“Oh, is _that_ what you were doing?”

He was spared having to answer by the timely arrival of the _vaporetto_. Within moments, their tickets had been collected, their luggage stowed under the brightly colored naugahyde seats, and they were speeding across the choppy waters of the Lagoon toward the city of Venice.

They passed a smattering of sparsely populated islets and then, like a vision from a fairy tale, the gilded spires of the city rose to greet them. Gothic bridges, Moorish palaces and lavish Byzantine domes danced before their eyes in a fantasy of form and color. Bathed in sunlight, pale and golden against the dark waters of the Lagoon, the view took their breath away.

The _vaporetto_ slowed, negotiating its way through the crowded harbor, and entered the serpentine of the Grand Canal. They chugged along, passing under the arches of the Rialto Bridge and skirting the edges of a busy fish market. Their driver waved and called to friends in his oddly sibilant dialect. All too soon, the _vaporetto_ turned into a narrow side canal, and docked alongside their hotel.

“ _Pronto_ , here you arrive,” the driver announced in broken English. “Hotel Arlecchino. Watch you step.”

They unloaded their luggage, Illya scowling at the exorbitant tip Napoleon pressed upon the driver. Napoleon shrugged. “The man has to make a living, doesn't he?”

They carried their suitcases up a newly constructed stone staircase, past terra cotta tubs overflowing with bougainvillea, and pushed open the heavy oak door. The enticing aroma of oregano wafted toward them, and Illya's stomach rumbled with hunger.

“That smells wonderful,” he sighed.

“Lucrezia, she makes the sausage for tomorrow breakfast,” the man behind the front desk said, gesturing toward a set of double doors, behind which the men could hear a clatter of pots and pans. “You hungry, yes?”

“My friend is always hungry,” Napoleon replied, holding out his hand. “Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. We have reservations.”

“Ah, the UNCLE agents.” The man laughed at Napoleon's surprised expression. “ _Signore_ Waverly, he tells me you are coming.” He took the senior agent's hand in an iron grip. “Luca Barbozzi. My daughter Lucrezia and I own this hotel.”

Napoleon's hand strayed closer to his Walther. “I'm afraid I'm a bit confused, _Signore_ Barbozzi. What, exactly, is your connection with UNCLE?”

The man laughed again. “ _Mi dispiace_. I forget, you suspicious men.” He removed his spectacles, and leaned his elbows upon the oak countertop. “ _Signore_ Waverly, he's save my daughter life, long time ago. Pay for her operation. Now I return favor, play host to UNCLE agents when they come.” He shrugged. “Not dangerous, like work you do, but is way to pay back for kindness.”

Napoleon exhaled. “I see.”

“He's say you here to find out why so many agents getting murdered. I help.” He tapped his chest proudly. “Ask Luca anything.”

“Thank you for the offer, _Signore_ Barbozzi, but --”

“Did all the murdered agents stay here at the hotel?” Illya interjected brusquely.

Napoleon threw his partner a puzzled glance, but said nothing.

Luca turned toward the blond man. “ _S_ _ì_ _, sì_. All five. Two in July, One in _Augusto_ , and two more in _Settembre_. They go off one morning, but they never come back. Week later, we find bodies in canal.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I think maybe you got a -- how you say? -- _traditore_.”

“Traitor.”

“ _Sì_ , traitor.”

“Let's hope not, for all our sakes.”

The kitchen door swung open with a clatter, and an attractive, dark-haired girl stepped through, wiping her hands on her apron. “ _Le salcicce sono pronte, Pap_ _à_ _. Vado giù -- oh, scusi!_ ” The young woman blushed prettily. “I did not know our guests had arrived.”

Luca beamed. “My daughter, Lucrezia, gentlemen. _Figlia mia_ , _questo è_ _Signore_ _Solo e_ _Signore_ _Kuryakin_ _da_ _UNCLE_. They come about the murdered agents.”

“Yes, of course. Such a terrible thing to happen. If there's anything I can do to help? Anything at all --”

“Thank you, _signorina_ ,” Napoleon replied, taking her hand. It was soft and warm. “We'll keep that in mind. Your English is excellent, by the way.”

“ _Grazie, signore.”_ She smiled demurely, and allowed him to hold onto her hand a moment longer than was necessary. “I attended college in New York City -- a degree in hotel management. I thought it might help Papa's business.”

“My beautiful daughter,” Luca sighed. “Always, she thinks of others.”

“We are rather tired after the long trip,” Illya declared impatiently. “If you could please show us to our room --”

 _“Sì, sì, certo._ ” Luca selected an ornate key from the pegboard behind the desk. “Number Six, top of the stairs, end of hall. I bring your luggage?”

“Thank you, no.”

“As you wish, _signore_. You need anything, just call for Luca.”

“Or Lucrezia,” the young woman added with a sultry smile.

“I'll, ah, remember that,” Napoleon replied, releasing her hand with reluctance.

“Na- _po_ -leon --” Illya stood at the foot of the stairs, arms folded across his chest.

The senior agent sighed. _“Buona sera, signorina.”_

 _"Buona sera, Signore Solo.”_  

*/*/*/

 

“Okay, _tovarisch_ ,” Napoleon demanded as soon as the door to their room was shut, “what the heck was that about?”

Illya held a finger to his lips, and tapped his ear significantly. After a moment, Napoleon nodded. For the next several minutes, they chatted casually about the beauties of Venice while they made a thorough sweep of their room for bugs.

“Satisfied?” Napoleon said at last.

“For the moment.”

“Okay, so give. Why were you rude to those people?”

“Don't you think it is suspicious, Napoleon, that the five dead agents all stayed at this hotel?”

He frowned. “You think Luca and his daughter had something to do with the murders?”

“It would be immensely foolish to discount the possibility.”

Napoleon stared out the window, following the progress of a group of nuns across the quiet _piazza._ Their black habits swirled in the stiff breeze. “I don't know, Illya. The Barbozzis don't seem like the THRUSH type.”

Illya snorted. “Pray tell, what is the 'type?'”

He considered the question. “Greedy. Amoral. Self-serving. Luca seems like a salt-of-the-earth sort of guy, and he's genuinely grateful toward Mr. Waverly. Why would he betray the man who saved his daughter's life?”

“You are assuming the story is true, and not a clever fabrication.”

“It's easy enough to check,” Napoleon replied a bit defensively.

“We should make it a priority. In the meantime, I will remind you that Venice has a rather lurid history of ruthlessness, corruption and political intrigue dating back to the Renaissance. Machiavelli, the Borgias, not to mention the Mafia --”

Napoleon turned from the window. “Okay, _tovarisch_ , you've made your point. We'll keep our guard up while we're in the hotel.”

“Good.”

“I'll contact Waverly and check out Luca's story. Meanwhile, you keep those baby-blues of yours focused on our gracious host, and I'll cultivate the attentions of the daughter.” He smiled. “Catching flies with honey is my specialty.”

The Russian scowled. “Be careful that you do not become the fly.” 

*/*/*/ 

Illya woke, shivering.

_Dark. Night._

Thunder rumbled through the open window, rattling the headboard of the bed in which they slept. A steady rain clattered rhythmically against the tiled roof. The bedroom curtains billowed like restless phantasms, swirling in the gusting wind.

He lay silently under the covers, trying to recall what had woken him.

A sound. _The rain? Thunder, perhaps?_

Beside him in the bed, Napoleon slept on, snoring softly.

_No. Not the rain. A scraping sound, like stones rubbing together._

He waited, breathless, listening, but the sound did not come again. At last, he drew the heavy quilt up around his chin and rolled over. He was asleep in seconds. 

*/*/*/ 

Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, they elected to skip the sumptuous breakfast offered by their host until they received confirmation from Waverly. If Luca was offended by their decision, he gave no sign.

“You Americans and your crazy diets,” he laughed, wishing them _buona fortuna_ in their quest for answers regarding the murders of the five agents.

“Where to first?” Napoleon asked once they were out of earshot.

“Breakfast,” Illya answered readily.

The day was cold and damp, the sunlight weak and anemic. The cobbled walkways, usually crowded with people, were all but deserted. They crossed the Ponte Accademia, and found a coffee bar that had opened early to serve the local fishermen. Standing at the bar, they sipped their strong _doppios_ while Illya attacked a half-dozen cream puffs, licking the rich, custardy filling from his fingertips with the concentration of a true hedonist. Napoleon contented himself with a pair of _tette di nonni._

“Were all the murdered agents working on the same Affair?” Illya asked as he signaled for another _doppio._

 _“_ You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no. Hastings and Burke were investigating THRUSH activity at the mental health facility on Poveglia, Kowalski was checking on rumors of a connection between THRUSH and the La Fenice Opera Company, and Fong and Cosmo were tracing the route of banned chemical substances entering Europe through the Adriatic gateway. Three unrelated missions.”

“No connection whatsoever, and yet they are all dead.” Illya frowned, and drained his _doppio_. “Where does that leave us?”

“Retracing the movements of the agents, I suppose. It's all we've got to go on. Fortunately, each was here for only a day before going missing.”

“Fortunate?” Illya's blue eyes challenged. “For us, perhaps. Not for them.”

“No,” Napoleon agreed soberly. “Not for them.”

A siren abruptly pierced the silence, a single wailing note.

“Good God,” Napoleon exclaimed. “Is that an air raid siren?”

Illya shook his head. “It is warning of an impending _acqua alta –_ an unusually high tide. Flooding is common here in the Fall months.”

Napoleon clamped his hands over his ears. “Could that thing possibly be any louder?”

The siren cut off abruptly, and he sighed into the blessed silence. “So how bad does this _acqua alta_ get?”

Illya shrugged. “It depends. The more siren blasts, the higher the _acqua alta_ will be. Four blasts is rare, but would be cause for real concern.”

“Has that ever happened?”

“Only once, in 1966 -- a tidal surge of nearly ten feet. The city was inundated, the lower floors of many buildings completely submerged. Fortunately, today's was only a single alarm, meaning there is little to worry about besides wet shoes.”

“Wet shoes. Wonderful.” Napoleon glanced down at his stylish Italian loafers.

“We could buy you some galoshes," Illya smirked. "I hear they come in colors now.”

“Rubber boots, ugh. Not exactly the fashion statement I had in mind.” 

*/*/*/ 

They began their investigation on the adjacent island of Poveglia, site of the mental health facility the first two agents had been sent to investigate. The old hospital was in a sorry state, its foundation crumbling from constant exposure to the salt air, weeds taking over the once pristine grounds. Inside, the place was a vast, hollow shell through which the wind whistled eerily. File cabinets had been overturned, papers strewn everywhere, as though the place had been abandoned at a moment's notice. The locals claimed the island was haunted.

 “The Venetians are a deeply superstitious people.” Illya commented as he rifled through a rusted file cabinet. “Did you notice how reluctant our driver was to bring us over here?”

“I don't blame him,” Napoleon shuddered. “This place gives me the creeps.”

They spent the morning poring through old files and documents, and scouring the deserted building for clues, but to no avail. If Hastings and Burke had passed this way, they had left no trace of their presence.

“Looks like we're done here,” Napoleon said at last. He felt a growing frustration with their mission. Five men were dead -- five experienced agents -- and they hadn't a clue to finding their killers.

Just then, his communicator began to beep. “Solo here.”

The cultured voice of Alexander Waverly brought a momentary warmth to the room. “Gentlemen,” The Old Man said, “I trust you have news regarding your investigation into the Venetian Affair?”

“We're just finishing up at Poveglia,” Napoleon replied. “Unfortunately, there's not much to tell at this point. The trail is pretty cold.”

“I don't want excuses, Mr. Solo. I want results. It's imperative that we find out who is murdering our agents. Our Mediterranean operations are at a standstill, and Carlo's tirades on the subject are becoming increasingly tiresome.”

“Yes, sir. We're headed to La Fenice this afternoon. Hopefully we'll find something worthwhile there.”

“See that you do, Mr. Solo.”

Napoleon hesitated. “Uh, about Luca Barbozzi and his daughter --?”

A slight pause. “My apologies, gentlemen. That information should have been included in your briefing.” Waverly sighed, and Napoleon imagined The Old Man casting his memory back all those years.

“When she was three years old, Lucrezia Barbozzi was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, and the family didn't have the funds to pay for her operation. This would have been just after the War -- the country was in shambles back then, and no one had much in the way of money. I was stationed in Aviano at the time, and heard of the family's dilemma. I had funds wired over to cover the cost of the child's treatment.” A pause. “I take it little Lucrezia is doing well?”

Napoleon chuckled. “'Little' Lucrezia has grown into a lovely young woman. Sir.”

“Oh, yes, quite. I'm afraid I have a tendency to think of the child as I last saw her.” The sound of papers being shuffled. “Well then, if there's nothing else? Keep me posted on your progress, and give my regards to _Signore_ Barbozzi and his daughter. Waverly, out.”

Napoleon pocketed his communicator. “Well, there's a bit of good news. Looks like our hosts are in the clear.”

“At least we know it is safe to eat dinner at the hotel tonight,” Illya replied with renewed enthusiasm. “I was sorry to miss the sausages.”

They spent a rainy afternoon following the trail of the remaining two teams, a trail that took them from the rarified atmosphere of the opera house to the rough-and-tumble world of the docks. The only thing they discovered was that none of the agents had stumbled onto anything criminal -- or even remotely interesting -- in the course of their investigations.

They made their way back along the flooded streets, balancing on the wooden planks laid out by shop owners to allow passage across the _acqua alta._ As they entered the hotel, they saw Luca scurrying across the lobby, his arms full of flowers. He waved in greeting.

 _“Buona sera, signori. Momento,_ I make fresh bouquet for lobby.” He thrust a tall stem of poppies into a chipped vase. “You have the good luck today?”

“Not much, I'm afraid.”

Luca's face fell. “Oh, too bad. Tomorrow better, Luca is sure. Tonight my Lucrezia make for you the hot supper. _Bisato,_ with nice cuttlefish risotto. _Delizioso._ ” He blew a kiss.

“ _Bisato?”_ Napoleon rolled the word over on his tongue. “Sounds wonderful. What is that in English?”

Illya smirked. “Marinated eel.” 

*/*/*/  

The eel was spicy and tender, and Napoleon had to admit that it was delicious. It was served with a creamy cuttlefish risotto, basted in the creature's own black ink. A medley of tomatoes, peppers and aubergines accompanied the dish, along with a bottle of crisp _Soave Classico_. Illya, for his part, tucked in with enthusiasm, devouring the meal as though his life depended on it.

“I guess you fellas give up on crazy American diet,” Luca remarked with a sly smile.

Dessert was a decadent _tirimas_ _ù_ _,_ the marscarpone cheese oozing enticingly down the sides. It was served with glasses of bubbling _prosecco spumante_.

Illya rose from the table with a contented sigh. “It has been a long day,” he announced, catching Napoleon's eye. “I am going to bed.”

“You go ahead,” the senior agent replied with a wink. “I want to thank Lucrezia for the wonderful dinner.” He headed toward the kitchen, whistling in anticipation of the evening ahead.

Illya changed into pajamas, and selected a volume of Boccaccio's _Decameron_ from the bookshelf. He opened the bedroom window to let in the cool night air, pleased to see that the weather had finally cleared. He leaned out the window, inhaling the freshness that always followed a rain, and winced in surprise as a splinter pierced his finger. He glanced down; a tiny drop of blood formed on the pad of his thumb. He put it to his mouth and sucked.

The room lurched alarmingly. Illya's vision wavered, and his entire body began to shake. He tried to cry out, to signal Napoleon somehow, but his vocal cords refused to function. His breath came in short gasps that did little to fill his lungs.

_A paralytic! Chyort!_

He took a step toward the door, but his legs collapsed under him, and he hit the floor with a thud.

_Napoleon!_

Blackness took him. 

*/*/*/  

Downstairs in the kitchen, Napoleon broke off the kiss.

“What was that?” he said, suddenly alert.

Lucrezia's eyes opened. Her voice was sleepy, languid with desire. “Mmm? What was what?”

“I thought I heard something fall.”

“I didn't hear anything.” Her fingers stroked his bare chest. The nails, he saw, were blood red. “I'm sure it was nothing, _caro_. Probably just Papa cleaning. We have new guests arriving tomorrow.”

“New guests?” Napoleon nestled closer, feathering kisses down her neck. “You mean I'll have to share you?”

She laughed, a throaty sound. “Not tonight,” she murmured, and pressed her lips to his. 

*/*/*/ 

Illya woke to find himself on a stone floor. His wrists were encased in thick manacles, attached by chains to spikes hammered into the wall. He had been stripped down to his boxers, and now he shivered in the chill of the room. His partner lay beside him, unconscious.   

 _Napoleon_ , he tried to say, _wake up_ , but no sound came out.

“No need to whisper, Mr. Kuryakin,” a voice observed with a touch of humor. “We're all friends here.”

 _That voice!_ Illya opened his mouth to answer, and gasped at the searing pain in his throat. _Poison?_ His eyes widened in sudden panic.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Kuryakin. It's merely the drug wearing off. You'll be able to speak clearly in a moment.”

Illya took a deep breath. The burning sensation faded. “Bar-boz-zi.”

“See now? It's feeling much better, isn't it?” The innkeeper stepped into view, holding a THRUSH revolver. He looked taller somehow, and harder.

“What -- happened -- your accent?” His tongue felt thick, useless.

“Ah, yes, the accent. Such a clever deception. No one ever suspects the humble peasant.”

Illya blinked, trying to focus, but the paralyzing effects of the drug in his system made it impossible. His head felt as though it would explode. “Why --?”

“Why am I doing this?" Barbozzi roared with laughter. "The money, of course! Do you think I want to stay in this miserable backwater forever, catering to the whims of ignorant tourists? Bowing and scraping like a servant?” His smile was harsh, predatory. “THRUSH is paying me an obscene amount of money to deliver UNCLE agents into their care, and I am happy to sell my services to them.”

Illya was honestly shocked. “Mr. Waverly -- s-saved your daughter's life!”

“Twenty-three years ago! I've more than repaid the debt, and now THRUSH has made me a better offer. Why, your capture alone has netted me fifty-thousand American dollars, for which I am profoundly grateful.” He chuckled. “Don't feel too badly, Mr. Kuryakin -- the other agents misjudged me, too. They overlooked the bumbling old _paesano_ , just as you and Mr. Solo did.”

“I don't suppose there is room for negotiation?” Illya rasped, hoping to buy time. His eyes watered from the effort, but he was beginning to make out the wavering shape of his captor.

“Too late for that, Mr. Kuryakin. A team of THRUSH interrogators will be arriving in the morning to question you and Mr. Solo. Suffice it to say, the experience won't be anything to write home about."

“You really are a cold-blooded bastard, aren't you, Barbozzi?” He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey him. He lost his balance and fell, smashing his cheek against the stone floor.

The innkeepers smile was chilling. “Don't take it personally, Mr. Kuryakin. It's just business." He placed a candle into a niche high in the wall. "Now, if you will excuse me --”

Illya's chin lifted; it was all the movement he could manage. “No.”

“What?”

“I will not excuse you,” he spat. “I will not excuse your greed, nor your disloyalty to the good and honorable man who saved your daughter's life. You are a foolish little fish, Luca Barbozzi, swimming in a large and very dangerous ocean. The sharks will make a meal of you before long.”

Barbozzi's face contorted in rage. “How dare you!” He backhanded Illya, a stunning blow. Illya's head snapped back, striking the floor with a sickening crack. For an instant, he thought he might pass out.

 The innkeeper brushed a fleck of dust from his cloak. "I will leave you to your insolence, _signore_. My daughter and I have tickets for the opera this evening, and I don't want to miss the overture. It's Donizetti's _Belisario,_ and Leyla Gencer is singing the role of Antonina." He took an old-fashioned skeleton key from his pocket, and opened the thick iron door.

  _"_ _Buona sera_ ," he grinned amiably. "Luca, he hopes you sleep good _._ ”

The door slammed shut, enshrouding them in darkness.

“Napoleon? Napoleon!”

Nothing.

“ _Bozhe moy_ , Napoleon, wake up! _Razbudit!_ ” Illya shouted until he was hoarse. “We have to get out of here! _Pazhaluista_ , wake up!”

At last, the senior agent's eyes opened. “Jesus! Don't -- shout.”

Illya sighed in relief.

 “Where --?”

“The cellar of the hotel.” He noted the dilated pupils, the shallow breath sounds. “Are you alright?”

Napoleon nodded. “Lucrezia must -- have drugged me somehow. You, too?”

“A paralytic. I cannot move my legs.”

Napoleon took a long, unsteady breath, and groaned in pain. He took another. “How long was I out?”

“Over an hour. Barbozzi and the daughter are gone. A concert at La Fenice.”

“That gives us roughly an hour to figure a way out of here.”

“Agreed.” Illya looked down at his boxers, and sighed. “They didn't leave us much to work with, did they?”

“Not even an aspirin, and God knows I could use one right now.”

They examined their surroundings, barely visible in candle's weak glow. Plaster walls. No windows. A few barred air vents set into the lower portion of the wall. A wine rack filled with dusty bottles. A set of tiny wine tasting glasses and a corkscrew atop a battered table. A bowl of discarded corks.

“Another wine cellar,” Illya observed dismally. “All things considered, I think I prefer the canal.”

The hint of a smile crossed Napoleon's lips. “All things considered, _tovarisch,_ I'm inclined to agree with you. Now then, what say we find a way to get these chains off, before --”

A siren began to wail.

Napoleon and Illya exchanged uneasy glances. “The _acqua alta_.”

They counted. One. Two. Three --

“-- four alarms,” Napoleon said, and felt a chill run down his spine.

“And we are in a basement.”

“How much time do we have?”

Illya glanced at the doorjamb, then at the exposed air vents. Water was already beginning to gush through, pooling on the stone floor. “Not much. Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes.” he sighed. “I told you Venice was bad for my health.”

The water began to rise.

They pulled at the chains with all their strength, but the spikes held fast. The manacles around their wrists were tightly fitted as well, allowing no room for movement of any kind. “Houdini could not escape from these,” Illya remarked dismally.

The water rushed in. It soaked through their thin boxers, raising goosebumps on their bare skin and setting their teeth to chattering.

 "Barbozzi will have to come back for us," Napoleon said. THRUSH will kill him if the merchandise drowns." 

Illya shook his head. "The water is rising too fast. Even with a boat, he will not arrive in time."

 Napoleon sighed, as though he had expected the answer. "So, we're on our own."

 Illya shrugged.

“How are your legs, _tovarisch?_ Any feeling yet?”

“Some,” he gasped. In truth, they burned as though they were on fire.

“Any chance you can reach that corkscrew? I'm too far away. Maybe we can use it to pick the locks on these manacles.”

Illya assessed the distance. “Perhaps.” He stretched out his body, and nearly cried out from the pain. His muscles trembled from the residual effects of the drug, shoulders and wrists protesting as they strained against the confines of the manacles. He stretched until he thought his arms would rip out of their sockets. It wasn't far enough.He pulled at the chains, gritting his teeth against the pain, claiming an inch of ground, and then another. His wrists became slick with blood. Finally, Illya felt his toes make contact with the end of the corkscrew.  

“Careful, _tovarisch.”_

 _“Da.”_ He closed his toes around the handle, and lifted the precious implement with desperate care. It took what seemed an eternity, and several times he nearly dropped it, but eventually he was able to bring the corkscrew to within reach of his fingers.

Napoleon exhaled. “Looks like all that gymnastics training is finally paying off.”

The bottom row of wine bottles was underwater now.

“Hurry.”

Illya twisted his body, and guided the end of the corkscrew into the lock. Sweat broke out on his brow as he concentrated, working the tip of the tool back and forth over the tumblers. His tongue licked parched lips. Once, it fell from his numbed fingers, and he lost time searching for it in the turgid water. At last, he heard the final tumbler click and, with a snap, the lock gave way. He slid the manacles from his bloodied wrists, and turned to work on Napoleon's restraints. The second lock proved a good deal more challenging than the first, but finally it too gave way. Napoleon was free.

Okay,” he said, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation, “let's get out of here.”

The water was waist-deep now, and icy cold.

They splashed their way along the chamber walls, searching for a way out, but found nothing. “These walls are several inches thick,” Illya said. “It would take hours to break through.”

 “We don't have hours." Napoleon rapped the iron door. The sound echoed dully in the small chamber. "Maybe we can disassemble the door hinges.”

Illya shook his head. “They are on the other side of the door. The ceiling --?”

“Worth a try.”

He dragged himself onto Napoleon's shoulders and inspected the roof of the chamber.

“Well?”

 “It appears to be carved from a single block of stone,” Illya replied, sliding back into the churning water. “We cannot escape that way.”

They were forced to swim now. Dozens of wine bottles, liberated from their shelves, floated about the chamber. Discarded corks bobbed like fishing lures in the swirling current. “I can't believe they stored their good wine down here,” Napoleon sighed. “What a waste.”

“I am far more worried about the waste of two good lives.”

 The flood waters continued to rise, cresting the top of the iron door.

 "Illya _,”_ Napoleon said suddenly, “a hotel wine cellar would need a service door for deliveries, wouldn't it?”

“We checked _._ There was no --”

“A service door for deliveries _by boat!_ Deliveries from the canal! This is Venice, remember? Everything is tied to the canal.”

“There are no doors,” Illya repeated patiently. “We looked.”

“We were looking too high up. The service door would have to be lower down, close to the canal, to allow for the boat to unload its cargo. A door --”

“-- built a hundred years ago, before the city began to sink!” Illya's eyes lit with comprehension. “The stairs to the hotel, the ones leading up from the canal -- Napoleon, they were new!”

“-- to replace the old set, which was underwater!”

They dove, frantically searching the base of the walls for any sort of opening, surfacing only when their lungs were ready to burst. The water level had nearly reached the ceiling. Soon, the entire chamber would be submerged. Time was running out.

Napoleon surfaced, coughing and gasping. “Found it!” he cried. “It's been plastered over.”

They thrust their faces into the remaining air pocket, sucking in great gulps of precious oxygen. “We will only have one chance,” Illya said quietly.

Napoleon nodded. “Let's make it count.”

They dove deep, and Illya saw what they had missed before -- the telltale rectangular edges of cracking plaster. They kicked with all their might, pummeling the spot again and again, as their lungs screamed for oxygen and their strength waned. Above them, the candle flickered and went out.

Suddenly the door gave way and, with a great gushing sound, they were propelled into the canal. They surfaced underneath the hotel dock, gasping and sputtering, covered in garbage and surrounded by bottles of vintage wine.

Passers-by gathered on the opposite shore, gawking at the sight of two grown men swimming in the canal in their underwear. _“Pazzi Americani,”_ they laughed, as though that explained everything. Shaking their heads, they pulled the lunatics out of the filthy water.

Napoleon seized a bottle of red wine as it floated by. “ _Brunello di Montalcino 1962_. A very good year.”

Illya sneezed. “What did I tell you, Napoleon? Venice is terrible for my health.” He sneezed again.

“Gesundheit,” Napoleon replied, “but you did say you preferred the canal.”  

*/*/*/ 

Alexander Waverly lifted the china teacup to his lips, and sipped the soothing Oolong blend. Across the room, Napoleon poured himself another cup of coffee, and selected a Danish from the tray on the table. Illya buried his nose in a tissue and blew.

“Well, gentlemen,” The Old Man said, “thanks to you, not only have we captured Luca Barbozzi and his daughter -- we also managed to intercept the team of THRUSH interrogators as they arrived at the hotel. Our legal department will see to it that the guilty parties are locked away for a very long time.”

“That's good news,” Napoleon replied. “I only wish we could have saved the lives of the five agents.”

“Indeed.” Waverly turned expectantly toward Illya. “Mr. Kuryakin, you haven't said much about the Affair since your return.”

Illya's eyes were tired and bloodshot, his cheeks rosy with fever. “I am very glad to be done with Venice,” he answered.

“Oh?”

Illya hesitated. “It troubles me, sir, the ease with which Barbozzi justified his actions. He has you to thank for his daughter's life, and yet --”

“-- and yet he betrayed us.” Waverly sighed, and drained his cup. “I confess, Mr. Kuryakin, it troubles me, too. Luca Barbozzi sold his soul to THRUSH for thirty pieces of silver, and five good men are dead because of it.” He gazed into the empty cup as though, like some arcane riddle, the answer lay in the dregs. “Human nature at its very worst, I suppose. Greed is a powerful motivator.”

“So is honor,” Illya declared firmly.

After a moment, The Old Man smiled. “Yes, Mr. Kuryakin, and thank Heaven for that.” 

*/*/*/

 

[ ](http://avery11.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/455/46826)

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
